Page 10 of Christmas Charms
He gives me a tentative smile. “I guess so, yeah. But babe, that doesn’t mean…”
I stand without letting him finish. I’ve heard enough.
“Please stop explaining—it’s okay,” I say.
Really, it is. Because the more I think about it, the more I realize I’m not ready for marriage, either. Not to Jeremy, anyway. Not after tonight.
I slide into my coat, and the charm on my vintage pin gives a little jingle. Such a Christmassy sound. So joyful, when I’m feeling the exact opposite.
“I hope you and your family have a very merry Christmas,” I say, and then I give Jeremy one last wobbly smile before heading out into the cold.
Alone.
Chapter Four
“Please tell me you atleast left him sitting there with cheese stuck to his chin.” Maya passes me the small carton of gingerbread ice cream she dug out of the freezer the minute I turned up back in our tiny living room wearing my broken heart on my sleeve.
I blink back tears and dig in with my spoon. If there’s a genuine cure for heartbreak at Christmas, it’s got to involve gingerbread. “I couldn’t. It seemed mean.”
Before leaving Jeremy at the pizza place, I’d caved, handed him a napkin and told him about the cheese. I figured I owed him that much after three wonderful years together.
Although, truth be told, I’m not sure they’d been altogether wonderful. I’m not sure ofanythingat this point.
“He deserved it,” Maya says, jabbing at the air with her spoon for emphasis. “He deserved worse. You should have dumped your pizza on his head and smeared the tomato sauce in his hair. You dated forthree years, and he’s still rolling his eyes at the thought of marriage. He deserves way more than public humiliation by way of cheese.”
I try to laugh, but I can’t. All that comes out is a pathetic strangled noise. Somewhere between Central Park and my living room sofa, I’ve gone numb. I’m not going to Paris for Christmas. There will be no candlelight service at Sainte Chapelle, no Christmas Eve stroll along the Seine, no fancy party at the Ritz. Jeremy and I are finished, all because I’d suddenly believed that we lived in a Windsor holiday ad when in fact, we do not.
What was I thinking? I’m almost twenty-seven—far too old to believe in Christmas magic.
Maya sighs. “Come to think of it,Imight be the one who deserves punishment. I feel like this is all my fault. I should never have mentioned the ring.”
“Stop.” I shake my head. “Don’t be silly. You were just looking out for me.”
“I’m sorry. Seriously, Ash. So, so sorry.” Her face crumples, and just when I think it’s impossible to feel any worse about this evening’s dire turn of events, I do.
“Please don’t apologize. None of this is your fault.” I nibble on my bottom lip and pause before continuing, “I’ve actually been wondering…”
“What?” Maya’s spoon comes to a halt midway to the pint of ice cream. We’ve nearly plowed through the entire thing already. “I don’t like the guilty look on your face. Surely you’re not blaming yourself for your boyfriend’s general cluelessness.”
“Ex-boyfriend.” Maybe if I say it enough times it will begin to feel real. “And I’m not blaming myself.”
But perhaps I sort of am—not because of anything that transpired between Jeremy and me, but due to the nagging sense that my current predicament smacks of terrible irony.
Is this how Aidan felt all those years ago?
I try not to think about the answer to that question, because if I’m really being honest with myself, he was probably even more heartbroken than I am right now. Isn’t that the way it always is with young love—first love?
On the rare moments when I allow myself to remember how Aidan and I said goodbye, I crumble inside. No one getsengagedat the tender age of eighteen, though. Saying no to him was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But it had been the right answer, theonlyanswer.
Hadn’t it?
I take a ragged inhale. “Do you think what happened with Jeremy could be some kind of cosmic payback for breaking someone else’s heart? I mean, maybe I deserve this.”
Maya tilts her head, not catching my meaning at first. After a moment, she says, “Wait, are you talking about your old high school boyfriend—the one who proposed back when you were still teenagers?”
“Aidan,” I say, and his name tastes too familiar on my tongue. Too sweet. I put down my spoon. Clearly, I’ve overdosed on frozen gingerbread. “Aidan Flynn.”
I still haven’t told her about running into Aidan outside of FAO Schwartz earlier. I’m not sure why, exactly. I usually tell Maya everything.
